The stone is scored—not scarred—I say that quickly,as if naming steadiness could keep it still. Feldspar, mica—a staff, I thought,where pressure leaneduntil something gave.Pressure repeats. Basalt held something once—low—cooling did not still it,it locked it in.“Long notes” is my word,not the stone’s. Granite answers higher—quartz brightening,orthoclase chiming—names stacked like chords,precision as shelter.Brightness is what light…